


popularity, or pink flowers

by bellawritess



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, OH THAT'S A TAG HAHAHGFGAHDFK, Popular Luke Hemmings, Rating for Language, Songfic, Wicked AU, are you ready for this tag, brief mentions of alcohol, elphaba!michael, glinda!luke, how many times can i say popular in one fic challenge, i can't fucking believe myself, like i truly don't care how you read it, of sorts.............???????, somewhere in the world helen is horribly disappointed in me, the theatre kid in me is revealed, this is literally just the popular scene but with muke!gelphie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellawritess/pseuds/bellawritess
Summary: “No, no, no! Mikey, listen. This is going to be tough. I’m not going to lie. You’re a real fixer-upper, butdon’t worry.I have a perfect track record with makeovers. When I’m done with you, I swear, you will be popular.”Michael frowns at Luke’s winning smile. “Popular?”“Popular!” Luke agrees brightly.-(Wicked AU.)
Relationships: Michael Clifford & Luke Hemmings, Michael Clifford/Luke Hemmings
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22





	popularity, or pink flowers

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know what to say. [maggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuz) was talking about it on tumblr and so was [spidey anon](https://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/post/621413274959888384/good-evening-to-you-im-kinda-disappointed) a month ago and now it's 4am and i've written popular but with muke as gelphie. helen is going to be so disappointed in me
> 
> anyway despite the fact that i firmly believe gelphie is canon, i defer to you whether you wanna read this as pre-slash or gen. it can honestly be read either way - i wasn't even sure what i was writing while i was writing it, kinda both, so it's really up to you. also i have to say this takes the cake for most ridiculous thing i've ever written, even more so than spiderman au, so good for me on that
> 
> if anyone's curious, kara lindsay is my favorite glinda ever and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E91d88uzyc4) is the video of popular that i used as a reference for dialogue and general what-have-yous i have to say even if you don't know or like wicked (although if that's the case what are you doing on this fic) i strongly recommend you watch that video because kara lindsay is a fucking riot she is so wonderful anyway enough about kara lindsay
> 
> for once in my LIFE the title is NOT a lyric so no attributions here just me bidding you to enjoy the fic
> 
> and a tw for brief references to alcohol
> 
> ETA i have left a tumblr reblog link in the end notes so if you prefer to read fic on tumblr for some reason, now you can !!!

Luke is _buzzing_ when they get back to their dormitory, just a few minutes shy of midnight, and Michael sits at the edge of his bed and pretends not to notice the way Luke is literally bouncing on his own mattress.

Finally Luke snaps. “Your very first party ever!” he cheers, as if that’s something to be celebrating, that Michael is college-age and still has never been to a party.

“Do funerals count?” he asks, because if so he’s been to quite a few.

Luke frowns for a moment and then carries on, undeterred. “Your very first _party_ ,” he says, emphasis clear, and grins. “Yay!”

Michael doesn’t think the party was as much of a smash hit as Luke seems to believe it was, but Luke’s already leaping off his bed and scurrying over towards Michael’s. It’s possible Luke has had too much to drink; Michael wishes he’d known there would be alcohol. He would have taken advantage.

That, or Luke is just naturally this bubbly, which is an even more exhausting thought.

“I know!” says Luke, clambering onto Michael’s bed, pushing right up against his side. Michael shies away, hugging tighter to the pillow across his lap, but Luke doesn’t get the message and reaches to straighten out Michael’s fringe. “Let’s tell each other secrets. Something you’ve never told anyone before.” Grinning conspiratorially at Michael, he says, “I’ll go first.” Then, in a low whisper: “Ashton and I are going to be married!”

Michael blinks. Luke and Ashton are well-suited, he reckons; both a little bit flippant, a little bit ditzy, and very popular. “He’s asked you already?”

“Oh, he doesn’t know yet,” Luke says cheerfully. “Now you tell _me_ a secret.”

Michael can’t think of a single secret he wants to share with any version of Luke, but especially not _this_ version of Luke, who’s so ridiculously upbeat it makes Michael want to crawl under his bed and hermit until he becomes one with the dust bunnies.

“Like what?” he asks.

“Like,” Luke says, and then before Michael can react he’s off the bed and reaching under Michael’s other pillow, “why do you sleep with this green bottle under your bed?”

Michael jumps to his feet, cheeks hot. “Give it back!”

“Come on, what is it?” Luke screeches, holding it high up, almost out of reach. Michael grabs hold of it and they play tug of war for a moment, Luke demanding to know what it is and Michael growling for him to return it, before Michael finally wins the battle and the bottle is safely in his hands.

“It was my mum’s!” he snaps. “That’s all. Fuck.”

Luke looks deeply upset. “That’s not fair,” he accuses. “I told you a really good one.”

Michael thinks he’s going to do something violent in a few moments unless Luke does something really redeemable. And then Luke turns back to his own bed and flops face-first into his pillow, unmoving. Like he’s really, truly hurt by this betrayal of Michael’s, _daring_ not to match Luke’s oh-so-secret secret with one of his own.

It occurs to Michael that Luke is trying to bond with him. Or at least be friendly. And to be perfectly honest, that’s not something Michael’s come by too easily at Shiz. Friends, friendly people, anyone willing to make polite conversation...they’ve all been effectively nonexistent for Michael. For Luke, who had been such an asshole to him in the beginning (though Michael had returned the favor), to try and build a bridge despite their past failings, is actually pretty admirable. And Michael’s being cagey.

He caves.

“My dad hates me,” he admits. Luke immediately springs up. “That’s not the secret.” Once again Luke flops into his pillows, disappointed. Michael sighs. “The secret is that he has a good reason to. It’s my fault.”

This time Luke stands up and turns to look at him, and Michael recognizes the faintest trace of concern in his features. Sympathy. Not something Michael expected to see on Luke.

“What?” Luke asks, brows drawn together. “What is?”

This time, when he approaches Michael’s bed, it’s tentative, and maybe that’s what makes Michael shift over so that Luke can sit himself down. Still hugging the pillow close, Michael says, “That my sister is — the way she is.” _Crippled_ , he doesn’t say, because she hates it when people call her that, even if it’s true. Nessarose is crippled for life. 

Luke watches him, careful, and doesn’t say anything, so Michael clears his throat and starts from the beginning. “See, when our mum was carrying Nessa, our father started worrying that the new baby might come out, you know.” 

“Green,” Luke supplements, although there’s nothing mocking in his voice, surprisingly.

“Green,” Michael agrees, looking down at his hands for a moment. When he looks back, Luke’s eyes are still on him. “He was so worried that he made mum chew milk flowers all the time. Only…it made Nessa come too soon, and her legs were all tangled. And mum never woke up.” He swallows, shakes his head. “None of which would’ve happened if not for me.”

Luke is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “But that was the milk flowers’ fault. Not yours.” He grabs at Michael’s hands and Michael is too startled to pull away. “That may be your secret, Michael, but that doesn’t make it _true_. You’re blaming yourself for something you didn’t even do. For someone you just _are_.” And then, just as Michael is thinking that maybe Luke is cleverer than he lets on, Luke cuddles into his side, stroking his hair and whispering, “Shh.”

“Uh, Luke,” Michael whispers back, because this is pretty weird.

Luke ignores him. Then he catches sight of the clock on the wall and leaps away from Michael to his feet, clapping in excitement. “Hey, look, it’s tomorrow!” Turning to Michael, he adds, “Mikey — is it alright if I call you Mikey?”  
Michael grimaces. “Well, it’s a little childish.”

Luke ignores him again, happy grin fixed into place. Whatever Luke was sincerely reassuring Michael that Nessa’s deformity hadn’t been his fault is gone, and this bubblegum version of him is in his place. Michael’s not sure which one is the real Luke, or if there _is_ a real Luke. Maybe Luke is just a bunch of personalities that slot in and out of place like gobo lenses on stage lights.

“And you can call me…” Luke spreads his arms. “Luke!” Like Michael wasn’t already doing that. “See, Mikey, now that we’re _friends_ , I’ve decided to make you my new project.”

Michael stares. “You really, really don’t have to do that.” _Please_ don’t do that, is what he means to say. Michael can only imagine what that means, and it’s not pretty.

But Luke, once again, is steadfast. “I know! That’s what makes me so nice.”

Michael doesn’t know if _nice_ is the word. “I don’t need to be a project,” he tries, but Luke is already talking over him.

“You see, Mikey, I’m a very fortunate person,” he chirps. “And so when I see someone _less_ fortunate than I am — which, let’s face it, is most people — my heart aches for them. And when someone needs a makeover — well, I’m amazing at makeovers.” He tosses a grin at Michael. “ _Clearly._ And I know —” Michael opens his mouth to protest and Luke puts a finger over it, “I _know_ exactly what they need. Oh!” He stalls Michael on his return from putting the green bottle back underneath his pillow and reaches for his glasses. Michael winces as Luke pulls them away from his face, examines him for a moment, and then puts them back. Awesome. Michael’s always thought he looked dorky with glasses, but somehow Luke thinks he looks worse without them, which is just great.

“Luke —” he tries again, and is once more cut off.

“No, no, no! Mikey, listen. This is going to be tough. I’m not going to lie. You’re a real fixer-upper, but _don’t worry._ I have a perfect track record with makeovers. When I’m done with you, I swear, you _will_ be popular.”

Michael frowns at Luke’s winning smile. “Popular?”

“Popular!” Luke agrees brightly. “I’m an expert on being popular, Mikey. I can teach you _everything_ you need to know.” He gasps excitedly. “I can teach you to talk to boys!”

“I’m not really planning on —”

“And we can fix your hair!” Luke continues, growing more excited by the minute. At Michael’s face, he hurriedly says, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Except that it’s um, bad.”

“Oh,” Michael says faintly. “Well, if that’s all.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s not!” Luke says. Michael is tempted to try sarcasm again but it obviously sails right over Luke’s head, so he keeps his mouth shut as Luke fluffs a hand through Michael’s hair. Evidently he’s trying and failing to get it to do _something_ — maybe stick up in a quiff like Luke’s does, which Michael could have told him would be a lost cause — and eventually he rocks back on his heels and huffs. “Well. We can work on that later. You look offended.”

“Well —”

“Lighten up,” Luke insists. “Think of it as…personality dialysis!” Which is a big word that stuns Michael into silence. He hadn’t really known Luke _knew_ any big words, much less how to use them correctly. “Don’t be worried, Mikey. I told you, I’m a pro. And now that we’re _friends_ and I can give you _advice_ you have nothing to worry about.”

Michael is worried, although not for the reasons Luke thinks. He can’t picture a scenario where he walks out of this engagement unscathed.

“Luke, this is nice and all, but I don’t really feel like I need…to be popular.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Luke says. “Nobody _needs_ to be popular. Well. Except me. But I _am_ popular, so it works out pretty well!” He giggles. Michael wonders if the alcohol has worn off yet. Part of him hopes it hasn’t; if this is how Luke normally is with his friends, Michael has reason to be concerned. “Just let me help you. Let me _try_. You can be someone new! Instead of your old self! Well, your current self. Well — you get it.”

Michael sighs. “Okay,” he says, because the path of least resistance also seems like the fastest way to wear Luke out. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, and when Michael gives in he immediately springs into action.

“Amazing! First of all, let me take _these_ —” Luke lifts Michael’s glasses off his nose and folds them up, then grabs Michael’s wrists and tugs him over to Luke’s bed. Michael doesn’t really see why this pseudo-makeover can’t happen from the safety of his own twin, but whatever. “See, Mikey, you just have to think _logically_ . I mean, think about the big-shots you know about. Heads of state, diplomats.” Still chattering away, Luke reaches for something between his pillows, and Michael barely has time to register that it’s glitter — _glitter_ , what the _fuck,_ why would he keep that between his _pillows_ — before it’s being dusted over his face. “Do you think they got those positions because they were smart? Of course not! They were popular. It’s all to do with being popular, Mikey. I know you’re smart, but that’s not enough anymore! It doesn’t matter how smart you are. It matters how many friends you’ve got.”

There’s a lot going on right now, what with Luke babbling about aptitude while he applies _fucking glitter_ to Michael’s cheekbones, so Michael almost misses the part where Luke compliments him. Almost, but not quite. It’s right there; _I know you’re smart, but…_ Michael feels his cheeks flush with pride.

“You really think being — _popular_ is going to help me with my studies?” Michael asks hesitantly.

Luke beams, leaning away from Michael to survey his handiwork, and claps. Glitter clouds around his hands and flutters to the carpet.

“I don’t just think so,” he says giddily. “I _know_ so. Okay. First of all, you need to learn to flirt.” Michael doesn’t really have time to wonder how flirting is going to help him get ahead in class, because Luke’s powering forward, and Michael has no choice but to listen in helpless captivity. “This is a simple two-step move. Step one: hair.”

“Hair,” Michael repeats.

“Yes, try and keep up,” Luke says impatiently. “Step one, you run your hand through your hair. Like so.” He demonstrates, and his hair takes on a charmingly mussed-up look. “Now you try!”

Certain that his hair will either stay the same or get worse, Michael concedes, dragging his hand half-heartedly through his hair. Luke looks unmoved.

“You’ve got to do it like you mean it, Mikey. Here, pretend I’m some hot guy you’re trying to impress. Well, you won’t need to pretend I’m a hot guy, but you get it.” He giggles.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Maybe if you tell me the second step I can put them together?”

“Oh! Right. Step two: bite your lip. Like _so_.” With a halfway smirk, Luke drags his bottom lip between his teeth, then grins at Michael. “Okay. Put it all together. Come on come on come on! You can do it!”

There’s no denying that Luke looks pretty sexy with his infallible two-step move, but equally no denying that Michael will crash and burn. Luke looks too excited not to at least give it a shot, though, so Michael bites the bullet.

He tries for a smile, which definitely looks more like a grimace, and then pulls a hand through his hair, biting his lower lip as he does. Confused by both things at once, he bites down too hard, and then winces. “Ow, fuck!”

Luke looks so overjoyed at his attempt that he wraps him up in a too-tight hug. When he pulls away he looks optimistic. “Well,” he says hopefully, “you can practice.” Michael snorts. Luke’s eyes light up like he’s struck with an idea, and he pulls Michael to his feet. “Ooh, oh! And now, I shall turn your ratty clothes into a bespoke suit!”

Ratty clothes? “I like these clothes,” Michael says defensively, as Luke grabs for his wand. Skinny jeans and t-shirts are most of his wardrobe, most if not all black. It’s part of his whole look. The emo, brooding loner look.

Luke ignores him, which is becoming a theme for the night. Morning. Whichever. Brandishing his wand in Michael’s general direction, he declares, “Suit!”

Nothing happens.

Luke frowns, taps the end of his wand, and emphatically repeats, “ _Suit!_ ”

Again nothing.

“Is this thing even on?” Luke grumbles, and starts hitting the wand against his bed. 

Michael doesn’t want to be wearing a suit, but he also doesn’t want Luke to break his wand over this. “Do you want me to try?” he offers.

“No!” Luke says hotly, and throws the wand behind him, where it clatters against the wall and then to the floor. Calmly, he adds, “Just keep the, um, statement clothes. They’re cute.”

His expression says otherwise, but Michael decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“And now for the finishing touch,” Luke says, leading Michael to sit again at the foot of Luke’s bed. Michael goes willingly; hopefully this means an end to this nonsense, and Michael can get to bed, and in the morning they can be, like, awkward acquaintances at best. Michael isn’t expecting a lasting friendship out of this. It will be nice not to be constantly hostile towards his roommate, sure, but Luke’s…well, Luke is _Luke,_ cheerful and bubblegum pink and popular, and Michael is _Michael_ , that is, none of those things. In no universe could he and Luke remain friends, whatever Michael might want.

Patiently, Michael sits and watches as Luke reaches for the flower clipped in his hair, pulling it neatly back from his face, and slides the clip into Michael’s hair instead. It probably looks ridiculous — Michael’s all dark colors and green and grumpy, and pink shouldn’t be within a five-foot radius of his outfit, much less in the form of a hair clip flower — but as soon as it’s in, Luke gives a short gasp, and a smile spreads slowly over his face.

“Pink goes good with green,” he says happily. Michael can’t help but smile himself at the sincerity in Luke’s expression. “Michael. Look at you. You’re beautiful.”

In all his years of life, Michael has never once been called beautiful, and he jerks at the word now, sure that Luke must be having him on, that this must all be an elaborate prank. But Luke tugs him to his feet and leads him to the mirror, and the Michael in the mirror is — huh.

Pretty, actually.

Everything fades around Michael until Luke is just a blur off to the side, and Michael stares at himself until his eyes start unfocusing. He’s never been pretty before, never been anything other than an embarrassment to everyone who’d known him. But now his cheeks glimmer when they catch the light, and somehow fussing with his hair has actually made it look soft and inviting, and the flower, somehow, inexplicably, _does_ look good.

Warmth is blossoming in Michael’s chest, and with it, panic. This isn’t — this isn’t him. This isn’t Michael Clifford. This is some bootleg version of him, some bastardized combination of himself and Luke, and Luke isn’t who he wants to be, or even who he _should_ be. He should be Michael fucking Clifford, and that should be enough. His intelligence _should_ be good enough to carry him through his studies; he shouldn’t need popularity, or pink flowers.

“I,” he chokes out, as the world rushes back to him. “I have to go.” Anywhere else, anywhere other than in front of this mirror. He heads for the door but Luke grabs his arm.

“Hey,” he says, pouting. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks,” Michael says, strangled. “I mean, thanks but no thanks. This isn’t me.”

“It looks like you,” Luke points out, still holding his wrist. “Just a prettier version of you.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to be prettier,” Michael snarls, wrenching his hand free.

“Who wouldn’t want to be prettier?”

Michael groans. It had been too good to be true all along; Luke really is that stupid, that shallow, that daft. “ _I_ don’t! I don’t care if I’m pretty, or if I know how to flirt, or if I’m wearing a fucking suit! I want to be enough as I am. This might be hard for you to believe, but some people want to have worth outside of their looks!”

Luke stares at him as Michael cuts himself off, chest heaving from the outburst. “You think all I am is a pretty face?”

“No, Luke,” Michael says tiredly. “ _You_ think all you are is a pretty face. But I don’t want to be that. I’d rather be clever than handsome.”

“You can be both clever _and_ handsome,” Luke argues. “You’re not stupider if you put glitter on your face, Mikey.”

“Michael.”

“ _Mikey._ I don’t think you’re being very fair right now.”

“How am I not being fair?”

“I’m trying to help you, and you’re just — yelling and running away!” Luke says, throwing his hands up. “Maybe instead of blaming me, you should acknowledge why you’re really upset right now, huh? Admit it — you’ve never felt beautiful in your life, and now you’re upset because you didn’t realize you could have been pretty all along, and it was stupid, bubbly Luke Hemmings who taught you how to do it! You’re embarrassed that _I_ knew something that _you_ didn’t!”

Michael opens his mouth to retort, closes it, opens it again as the pink rises predictably in Luke’s cheeks — he’s probably not prone to violent outbursts the way Michael is, or confrontation at all, and now he looks like he might start crying — and says quietly, “Okay. Fine. You’re right.”

Luke’s eyes go wide. “I’m…right?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, though it pains him to admit it. “You’re right. I — I’m sorry, Luke. I shouldn’t have tried to run out. You were just trying to help.”

“I _did_ help,” Luke argues weakly, bottom lip quivering. “I did.”

“You did,” Michael allows. “Thank you.”

“You look really nice, you know,” Luke whispers. “Even if pink isn’t usually your color. It suits you.”

“Yeah, well,” Michael says, casting around for something to say. “Maybe you should start wearing green.”

Luke quirks his lips in a smile. “Maybe I should.”

He won’t, and they both know it — Luke’s color is going to be pink until the end of time — but it’s an olive branch for the both of them, and as one they both grab hold of it. Michael gets the feeling that something is going to be different. Maybe Luke isn’t just going to be an awkward acquaintance. Maybe they’ll be friends.

It’s far-fetched, but stranger things have happened. After all, Michael’s wearing glitter.

**Author's Note:**

> did i change the ending of that scene so it wouldn't end on a low note? yes of course i did. who do you take me for. some kind of monster
> 
> anyway not that this fic should ever compel you to follow me on tumblr but if you want to i'm there [@clumsyclifford](http://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/) and i will happily discuss the finer points of this au OR any other musical au OR whatever else floats through your mind WELL i think i'll go to sleep now since it is half 4am thanks for coming everyone goodnight
> 
> ETA oops [here's](https://clumsyclifford.tumblr.com/post/625416520355479552/popularity-or-pink-flowers) a cheeky tumblr link if you wanna read/reblog this fic there


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